


Insults for Your Lovers

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Communication, Getting Together, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Things Jack has: Brand new yellow sneakers, an expensive truck, Kent Parson.Things Kent has: Converse with holes in them, riding shotgun, Jack Zimmermann.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zooeyandfranny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zooeyandfranny/gifts).



> I volunteered to pinch-hit for Swawesome Santa, and zooeyandfranny requested something about Kent's struggles with being from a low-income family in the NHL. This fic...is kind of that. I hope you like it!!
> 
> Thanks so much to shipped-goldstandard for the beta <3

Kent leaves the locker room and finds Jack waiting for him at the truck, brooding at his sneakers. The shoes are brand new and so neon yellow they’re practically screaming back at him. When Kent wiggles his toes, he can feel his big toe poke through the fabric and hit the rubber edge of his knockoff Converse that he’s had for a year and will keep for two more if he doesn’t go through another growth spurt.

“Hey, Zimms. Thought you bailed without me.”

Jack looks up and presses his lips into a thin line. Kent can tell the gears are turning in his head,  so he leaves Jack alone and throws his bag in the back of the cab and climbs into the front.

Jack hops in too and drives them three miles down the road before he finally asks, for no discernible reason, “Did I buy you?”

“Uh, what the fuck?”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, because he’s a fucking disgustingly, annoyingly responsible driver. His head jerks a little, like he was considering it, though. “Anderson said you’re my only friend because you’re the only one cheap enough to buy. Did I buy you?”

If this truck were a little cheaper or if Kent liked Jack less, he’d probably throw up in it. Just, really blow chunks all over the dashboard. As it is, his nostrils flare and he spits, “Andy is a fucking cocksucker.”

“Oh.” Jack pauses, as if to consider. Then, he asks, “Why isn’t ‘pussy-eater’ an insult?”

“What the fuck?” Kent asks, for the second time in as many minutes.

“Just. We don’t call girls who give blowjobs ‘cocksuckers.’ We don’t insult guys by calling them ‘pussy-eaters’ even though it’s the same thing, basically.” They come to a red light, and Jack turns to Kent with a timid earnestness in his eyes. “I don’t think we even insult girls by calling them ‘pussy-eaters.’ So why is it an insult for men? Like, guys can—they can like having sex with guys, right? So—they probably like sucking dicks. Why is that an insult?”

Kent stares at the traffic, concentrates on reading the license plates around him. There are three black cars, one red one, and two silvers. Kent is pretty sure he’d like sucking dick. He’s pretty sure he’d like sucking Jack’s dick, specifically. And Kent is also pretty sure, as his hand flexes into a fist and the bruises from last week ache against his knuckles, that he’d punch someone out if they called him a cocksucker because he’s supposed to be disgusted by the implication. He imagines punching someone feels almost as good as kissing Jack would feel.

“I’ve never thought about it that way,” Kent says. “I won’t say that again, I guess.”

“Me neither,” Jack agrees. The light turns green and he shifts his attention back to the road.

Neither of them says anything for a minute, and then Kent clears his throat. “Andy is still full of shit, though. You didn’t buy me. I’m not—I’m not some like, gold digger or something.”

“No, ‘gold digger’ is an insult for girls,” Jack deadpans. He’s kind of an asshole like that, and Kent—likes him a lot.

Kent snorts. “It’s the 21st century, Zimms. Anyone can be a gold digger. Except me. Because I’m not one.”

Jack purses his lips again and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “It’s just, um. We always do things that cost money and I always pay for you? And I don’t—I don’t mind. My dad can afford it and he likes you. But. Would you be my friend if I—if I didn’t do that or you—didn’t need me to?”

Kent rolls the window down and sticks his head out of it. The wind tugs at his snapback so he takes it off and sets it in his lap. The air stings his cheeks. “Believe it or not, I do fucking like you as a person, Jack. I’d still like you if you were broke.” Almost as an afterthought, he mutters, “Hell, I might even like you more.”

“Really?” Jack sounds timid, confused.

Sometimes Kent cries when he’s mad. The tears in his eyes are from the wind whipping in his face. He watches tree branches blur by their car as they drive by so Jack won’t see and asks, “Do you know—Christ, do you know how fucking hard it is to watch you pay for everything? Do you think I _like_ it?”

“Kenny—,”

“Shut up, I’m not done," Kent snaps. “You know I thought I’d have to quit hockey when my skates broke last month? Do you think I like knowing I’m only still here because your rich daddy did me a favor? Is it like, twisted up in your head to the point where you think maybe I like being the fucking charity case?”

Kent’s voice’s gone high-pitched and strained and he should shut the fuck up but he can’t. “It fucking sucks, Jack, and it basically fucking kills me every time you buy me a fucking ice-cream cone, let alone pads or skates or any other hockey shit. But I don’t get to hang out with you and the team if you don’t. I don’t get to _be_ here if you don’t. But you know, fine, if you—,”

Jack yanks the steering wheel to the side and cuts across two lanes of traffic to pull into a fucking Tim Horton’s parking lot, of all things. Kent nearly cracks his head against the side of the car but catches himself at the last second, hands braced against the frame and eyes wide in shock.

“What the _fuck?”_

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, as the last of the horn-blaring from the other cars wears off.

Kent’s heart is putting a pretty solid effort towards beating out of his chest. “For almost fucking _killing_ us?”

“No—ah, yeah, that too. But. I want, um. Dad says you’re supposed to look people in the eye, when you say important things. And I want to, um—will you look at me?” Kent turns, biting into his lip to stop it from trembling. “I wanna say I’m sorry? I don’t—you’re right, I don’t get it. And I’m sorry because I can tell you’re upset about it and I—I didn’t want that.”

Kent blinks, tries to breathe through his nostrils. “I—that’s okay.”

“I just. Um. Please don’t tell anyone. But I’ve, um—the doctor says I have anxiety? And I get—I get really, like, nervous. That people don’t like me.” Jack drops his eyes and fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt in his hands. “And when Anderson said that, I—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like, why else would you like me? Other people don’t.”

It’s definitely out of no-homo territory to grab Jack’s hand right now. Kent does it anyway, and later he’ll blame it on the adrenaline and the miserable look on Jack’s face. He covers Jack’s hand with his and apologizes, “Zimms, I—fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t, uh—I didn’t know that, obviously, since you just told me. And it’s like, it’s really hard okay? To be the broke kid. But, uh. I guess it’s hard being you too. Sorry I yelled, dude.”

Jack’s fingers twitch and then he flips his hand over, so his palm is facing up and nestles against Kent’s. That’s not in no-homo territory either and Kent can’t afford to think about what that means. “Thanks.”

“I’ll—um, like just to make sure. I, uh, I like you a lot, Zimms. Not because I have to. ‘Cause, like—you’re fun to talk to, and your sense of humor is fucking sick, and—I dunno, I just do.” Kent’s face feels warm; he wonders if he’s blushing.

He continues, “And like, the money thing? If it’s weird, I—I mean, it’ll be really hard if your dad doesn’t help with hockey anymore. But the other stuff—you don’t have to, you know. I just, like, I won’t eat when we go out with the team and—if we hang out we can do free stuff. Like chill and listen to music or watch TV.”

“It’s not—um, it’s not a problem to pay for stuff. I like doing it. I think Dad does too,” Jack says, “I just—thanks for reminding me. That that’s not why you—why we’re friends.”

Kent looks up at Jack and says, “Oh, um. Okay. Thanks.” Their hands are still linked, resting on the seat next to Jack’s thigh. Jack’s palm is clammy and Kent knows his hand is gross and sweaty and it still feels really fucking good, holding Jack’s hand.

Jack asks, “Um. Do you wanna get a coffee or something? Since we’re here.”

The thought of putting something in his stomach kinda makes Kent want to hurl again. “Uh, I’m good. Unless—unless you wanted—”

“No,” Jack answers quickly, and then falls silent. They sit there quietly, both looking everywhere but each other, gross sweaty hands on top of one another, for God knows who long. Then Jack says, “Guess we should go home, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kent reluctantly agrees, and he pretends his stomach doesn’t drop when Jack pulls his hand away to switch the car into drive and pull back out of the parking lot. He’d never even turned the engine off, Kent realizes belatedly.

Jack merges back into traffic carefully, tongue poking out from between his lips in concentration. Then, he drops a hand off the steering wheel and nudges his fingers up against Kent’s hand, a barely-there touch that almost fucking kills Kent where he sits.

Jack doesn’t ever take his hands off the wheel. Because he’s a fucking responsible driver. Jack’s hand is touching Kent’s and it doesn’t move away when Kent, heart in his throat, slides his hand over so that it’s on top of Jack’s again.

“Hey, Zimms?” Kent asks. His voice is shaking and he’s never been as scared in his life as he is right now, not even fifteen minutes ago when he thought Jack might commit vehicular manslaughter and kill them both.

They aren’t at a red light or a stop sign but Jack looks over anyway, just for a moment. “Yeah, Kenny?”

“I think I might be one. A cocksucker, I mean. Not in the—not in the insult-way.”

“Oh.” Jack’s eyes are fixed straight ahead. “Me—me too.”

Kent blinks rapidly and tries not to cry with—whatever he’s feeling. The relief, the all-encompassing and terrifying hope. “I’ve seen you kiss girls.”

“I’d kiss boys, too,” Jack says, like it’s obvious.

“Would you—,” Kent asks, swallowing thickly, “Would you kiss me?”

“Um. Yeah. I would.”

Kent scrubs at his eyes with his free hand. There’s a weird tingly feeling shooting up his spine and his skin is covered in goosebumps even though Jack has the heat cranked up in the truck for him. “I’d kiss you, too.”

Jack smirks, the tiniest quirk of his lips, and Kent knows he’s about to be fucking done in. “Because you’re a gold digger?”

“Oh my God. You know what, asshole? Changed my mind, not kissing you anymore.”

Jack laughs and laughs, and it’s Kent’s favorite sound in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Kent Parson with every fiber of my trash heart. Come scream with me about him [on Tumblr! <3](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


End file.
